Celebrations of a Sort
by clanmalfoy
Summary: Ron Weasley is no bandwagon fan. DG, RHr. [Worth Any Price-era one-shot]


**A/N:** This ficlet is dedicated to Sarea Okelani, one of my favourite D/G writers. She was in need of some fluff, and as the Red Sox won the World Series tonight, I was in a position to provide. Many thanks to Cyn and Sam, who graciously accepted ficbits.

Ginny watched Draco's face with some trepidation as the two of them, plus their two-year-old son Julian, made their way through the front door of the Burrow. She'd been certain that her husband would not have wanted to attend this particular Weasley family gathering, and yet here he was, confidently approaching the Weasley home, his tow-headed son gathered up in his arms, and a small smirk playing about his face.

Upon later reflection, she would realize she should have been worried about that smirk.

"Good afternoon, Malfoys," the family patriarch greeted them jovially, his tone reminiscent of years past, when he'd arrive home after a day at the Ministry to greet his wife, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny sitting at the well-loved kitchen table. "How's my Princess?" he asked softly, leaning over to kiss his daughter's cheek.

"Just fine, Dad." She replied to his question with a smile on her lips and contentment in her eyes, and her father beamed.

"I'm glad. And Draco! Good to see you. I'd shake your hand, but yours look pretty full," Arthur effused. "Go on in, the new parents are just in the living room there."

A tiny ache settled between Ginny's shoulderblades as she anticipated Draco's reaction to her father's cheerful salutation. When the tall blond merely inclined his head and neutrally replied, "Sir," she let out the breath she'd been unconsciously holding, and followed in the direction of her father's hand, over to the well-worn recliner in which a tired-looking Hermione held an impossibly tiny bundle of blue blanket.

"Oh, Hermione," she murmured, and perched on the arm of the chair, slipping one arm around the other witch's shoulders. "Who is this lovely man?"

"Andrew," the newest mum in the Weasley family replied. "Andrew Harry Weasley."

Part of Ginny cringed, even as she smiled at Hermione -- expecting a snort of derision from wherever her husband had gone off to, over their choice of middle names. "That's so wonderful," she murmured. "And has Harry met his young namesake?"

"This morning." Hermione shifted the baby in her arms. "Would you like to hold your nephew?"

Of course Ginny did. Her sister-in-law placed Andrew in her arms, and she gazed at his tiny face, the shock of brown hair sticking out from the little blue hat, his miniature Weasley nose. She remembered the first moment she'd had alone with her son, even though their appearances were nothing like.

She lifted one corner of the blanket to see whether Hermione had dressed the infant in the little blue creeper she'd given. She saw the little pattern of dragons and smiled slightly, just as a low male voice sounded from behind her. "It's lucky that the baby got his mum's hair. Though I'm amazed that he's not wearing orange."

Her brow furrowed, and she turned her head to look up at her husband. "What does that have to do with anything, Draco?" she queried in unexpected unison with her brother.

"Oh come now, Weaselby. The moment the two of you announced your expectancy, I did the math." A predatory grin crossed Draco's sharp features. "And I think I know how someone decided to celebrate the Cannons' winning the League after too many years to count."

"Sod off, Malfoy," Ron bit out.

Ginny looked from her brother, taking in the glare he was currently giving the eldest Malfoy, to Hermione, whose face had betrayed her with a furious blush. "You _didn't_," she said. A chuckle she couldn't have held back with the walls of Azkaban escaped her lips.

"That's it, the lot of you!" Ron roared. "Out! Though," he added, his voice lowering, "I suppose Julian can stay."

"Ron, I'm sorry!" Ginny pleaded, as the chuckle turned into a full laugh. "But only you ... only you! You and your love for that horrible team!" She tried to catch her breath from laughing, and her son, still in his father's arms, caught the giggles, his high, clear voice ringing through the room.

Ron stared at his nephew. "Not you too," he mourned. "I guess I'll just have to chuck all of you out."


End file.
